


Let Fall From Heaven, Prodigy of Miracles

by Lonely_Heart119



Series: Verisimilitude [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Character Study, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Politics, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26363185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lonely_Heart119/pseuds/Lonely_Heart119
Summary: It's only befitting that a routine feel normal, comfortable. Even achingly boring.Loneliness? Essek doesn't know the meaning of the word.
Relationships: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast
Series: Verisimilitude [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915777
Comments: 29
Kudos: 231





	Let Fall From Heaven, Prodigy of Miracles

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in the near future, post-Travelercon. All previous canon applies.
> 
> Though the title's origin is from a Catholic prayer to Saint Therese, I heard it first in Soulwax's "Heaven Scent." I highly recommend it.

Sitting in court is usually an irritating affair. 

Deciding where to look as the pompous courtiers of each Den feign the barest interest in one another as they try to keep their agenda-advancing tactics covert. 

Keeping a running tally in his head of how often each of them interrupts whoever is currently speaking is one way for Essek to pass the time.

He all but drums his fingers against the arm of the chair he sits in. At least in this position he needn’t hold his levitation spell. 

The court is currently arguing about the increased level of petty crime in the city and the allocation of these less important offenders to the upper level of the Dungeon of Penance.

The Skysybil stands, her bare feet slapping against the marbled floor. Regular members of the court had long ago given up attempting to make her wear shoes or any footwear of the sort; Essek remembers a rather formally written complaint that had slipped under his purview, stamped with the official crimson seal of Den Duendalos. He had firmly deposited it in the wastebin, and a stern word from the Queen at the next adjournment of court had deterred any further grousing.

She pokes a gnarled hand out of her robes to quiet the din. Though her stature is miniscule, her voice but a croak in her old age, she still speaks with an earned authority.

“I have foreseen such a thing happening.”

The court murmurs. Essek sees a few low ranking chancellors roll their eyes. When they aren’t in sight of the Queen’s roving gaze, of course. 

A wave and the noise quiets.

“The people of Rosohna are being influenced by a dark force. The poorer among them are the most affected, and this in-fighting will only worsen without intervention.”

This time it’s Essek who must resist the urge to roll his eyes. The woman is a great asset, without question. A talented diviner. But her presence in court is at best unnecessary and at worst, a nuisance. Her close relationship with the Queen betrays her in these moments.

A low ranking courtier from Den Kryn, a middle aged drow man that Essek has forgotten the name of, speaks up.

“Are we going to pretend that having ten thousand Aurora Watch soldiers stationed in the Coronas at all hours of the day isn’t a factor in this increased violence?”

It’s a gross overstatement that weakens the man’s rhetoric, but Essek considers his point. He’s never been concerned with the ornery rabble the Watch seems to endlessly collect like hen eggs, but has noticed an increase in the number of full cells during his routine excursions to the Shadowshire.

Professor Waccoh stands then, ever a quickness to her gait despite her size. She moves so abruptly that those closest to her involuntarily shift backwards. She roughly pushes back the wild mane of silver hair that falls around her face.

“Let me get this right: your vision for this city is to have all the criminals and violent thugs free to roam the streets? To punch and piss and spit on our denizens? Rolling back the Watch seems counterintuitive to the plot then, huh?” She speaks quickly, in the same intense way she might also describe a new development to one of her arcane war machines.

The man who spoke before stutters indignantly. The court starts to murmur again. The Skysybil begins to walk to where Waccoh is standing. The Queen, who has until this moment been watching impassively from her throne lifts a slender hand and there is silence again.

“Abrianna. How many Watch soldiers are stationed within the city as of right now?”

The Skysybil rubs the back of her neck.

“Just over three-thousand.”

“Find out exactly how many are stationed in the Coronas and lower the number by a quarter. Inform them that drunken reveling and domestic squabbles are not punishable offences.”

The Skysybil nods, turning her eyes downward. Essek remarks to himself with distaste how innocent she’s able to turn her visage. If one is to be the houndmaster and train their dogs to kill instead of maim, one should not shy away from the reality of having to pick the viscera from their teeth after a slaughter.

The Queen scans the room, narrowing her eyes.

“And since both of the Penance Keepers have decided it wise to be absent, I will direct my next instruction to my Shadowhand. You are dismissed.” The members of court rapidly disperse.

Essek approaches the throne, pausing merely a second to cast his levitation spell. Waccoh and the Skysybil are exchanging sour looks and the Dusk Captain is eyeing each of them from her position nearby. The Queen addresses him with little warmth or preamble.

“Let the Keepers of the Dungeon know that all sentences for violence against another and damage to property are to have their sentences reduced, effective immediately. Ensure that the Keepers mark their identity, and that the prisoners are told that their next offense will be punished by immediate execution.”

All three women surrounding her look surprised, the Dusk Captain even displaying shock, a rarity. Essek is taken aback as well, but his practice at neutering his expression rarely fails him.

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

She nods short and sharp. He retreats with a simple bow, listening to the low voice of the Dusk Captain as she speaks close to the Queen’s ear as he exits the throne room.

He is set upon immediately by the same courtier that spoke earlier. The man had apparently been waiting for him.

“Another day the illustrious Hand of the Queen is silent in court. Tell me, does your position intimidate you that highly, or is there really nothing of political substance in that prodigal head of yours?”

Essek is floating along at a quick enough pace that the man is forced into a half jog as he says this which Essek thinks severely undermines the bite of his insults. 

The response is so easy to formulate that he nearly takes no pleasure in delivering it. He stops abruptly. His levitation allows him a good few inches of extra height and he must look down to meet the man’s eyes.

“Better to be thought a fool than to open one’s mouth and prove it so.” The man looks at him, agape. Essek turns down the hallway that leads to his official chambers with nothing so much as a glance behind.

On his own, the door shut firmly behind him, he sinks down to his feet with a sigh. On his desk are already two stacks of papers waiting to be looked through and sorted, signed, checked and double-checked, delivered to their appropriate destinations.

He touches behind the length of his ears, rubbing the heightening tension out of the muscle there. Another sigh, and he’s sitting down to draft the missive for the Penance Keepers.

~

When the cylindrical brass timepiece at the edge of his desk signifies that it’s seven in the evening, Essek leans back and covers his eyes with his fingers. The day had been long, filled with an endless stream of noblemen and noblewomen alike disturbing his peace with trivial issues and grievances, much of which he had no hand in solving other than being a listening ear for their troubles.

He had flown through the first bout of paperwork, most of it being dry reports of Lens mobilization through a major mining operation in Druvenlode. They’d been sent only through his office by request of the Queen herself; her trust had been waning in the Head Spymaster for many months now.

The other stack of paperwork is depressingly large still, and a cursory glance through its contents reveals numerous appeals from low ranking officials in nearby Xhorhasian provinces requesting urgent aid to fend off various brutal attacks from sets of strange, abyssal creatures of unknown origin.

Otherwise, a nightmare to file. His urging to allocate a taskforce dedicated to stopping these unearthly threats was met with apathy on the part of the Watch, and as a result many of these appeals are denied or otherwise unanswered.

He presses his fingers harder against his eyelids until vibrating spots of color appear. He stands after a moment, collecting his mantle and fastening it around his shoulders.

Casting his levitation spell, he exits the chamber, out of the Bastion, single mindedly not making eye contact with any wandering eye of those still lingering about. He glides through the sparse crowd of people walking the streets of the Firmaments.

The tavern he ducks into is upscale by nature, though still tucked away from the main thoroughfare. The ceilings are low, the tables set closer together than they needed to be, and the light emanating from the few lanterns hung around the space is paltry.

In essence, perfect.

The barkeep, a young drow woman with her pale hair tucked into two neat braids, recognizes him immediately.

“What’ll it be today?”

Essek bites back his inclination to snap _the same it’s been every time I’ve set foot in here._ There’s been enough social volatility surrounding him today. This woman, Inae he recalls, has never been anything but nice to him. 

Maybe a little too nice, he thinks as she looks up from where she’s packing a wooden basket with various covered bowls and winks at him.

He holds little interest in women. It isn’t a fact many are privy to, even within his own Den, but he has never taken great lengths to hide it. He simply fixes Inae with a few blinks as she finishes gathering his food.

He presses the requisite ten silver into her palm, perhaps a mistake given how she all but caresses his hand while receiving them. He manages a polite smile before leaving the building with his basket tucked underneath his arm. On other occasions he might float it alongside him, but he felt almost too weary to even keep his own body aloft, let alone another object.

He catches a few lingering looks on the short journey to his home, but he’s much too tired to imagine what it is he’s being scrutinized about this time. If his luck’s run out, that drow from Den Kryn might have already begun to spread a vicious rumor about him through the local gossip channel.

 _Can you believe the Shadowhand cornered and berated a court member for ten minutes straight?_ It’s so vividly possible Essek can almost hear it being whispered into his own ear.

The click of the lock in his own door is a blessed sound. He sinks to the ground, pressing his back flat against the wall for a moment to close his eyes and take a deep breath.

He unpacks the basket over his dining room table, laying out the bowl of vegetable stew next to the platter of cooked mushrooms. The smell is nice, familiar as he sinks into one of the stiff seats and begins to eat.

Bite of stew. Bite of mushroom. Bite of stew. Bite of mushroom, and so on. He pauses to pick at an imperfection in the wood grain of the table. 

That comment from earlier surfaces in his mind unprompted. _Nothing of political substance in that prodigal head of yours_. It is by all accounts invariably, undeniably, completely untrue. In fact, there are times he feels he is purely constructed of political substance.

Why is it bothering him so? He can deflect even the most heinous insults like a suit of plate armor deflects the impact of a pebble.

 _But a million pebbles relentlessly thrown will eventually dent even the strongest armor_ , his mother’s voice rings in his head, her glass-smooth, metered way of speaking reproduced perfectly by his own imagination. It’s exactly the type of response she would give, as well.

“Thank you, mother,” he says out loud with as much sardonicism as he dares to invoke in the name of an Umavi.

His appetite thoroughly removed, he moves to his sitting room, leaving the discarded food in a gesture sure to greatly irritate him later. He falls onto the couch, perhaps one of the only two what he would deem comfortable surfaces in his house. 

He picks up the book he’s currently reading and flips to the first page that’s bent at the corner.

It’s a fictionalized account of the first successful expedition to map the Barbed Fields, and by all means a very intriguing story. It’s a shame then that before he finishes even the chapter he’s reading that his eyes are wandering off the page and to the arched glass window a few feet to his right.

It takes him a long while to shake his head and snap out of his listless gazing. After a few more attempts at reading in which the ink of the words might have well slid off the page before his eyes, he shuts the book with a huff.

He leans heavily on the side of the couch, rests his chin on his palm. He finds one of his legs kicking out absently. He thinks of trekking up to the lab to finish work on any one of his hundred ongoing experiments, dismisses it when his temple throbs sharply at the thought of performing any sort of focused arcane mathematics or writing the prerequisite lengthy, dry notes on his own work.

He’s utterly restless, with nothing appealing to fixate on to rid himself of such useless energy. He wants…

...he doesn’t know what he wants. There’s a pit in his stomach, yawning like some great open mouth. What it craves Essek can’t say, though he can dutifully feed it piecemeal of his daily routine in hopes of finding something it likes.

Drained and unfocused, he climbs the stairs to his room. The lounge seat pressed against the far wall had never looked so inviting. Without so much as a care for changing out of his attire, Essek drapes himself against the plush seat and attempts to fall into a trance.

Minutes, or perhaps seconds later, he is startled into alertness by the appearance of a voice in his head.

_Hi Essek! So, we are back from Travelercon and it would be super cool to see you again. I know that we kinda hate you -_

The message cuts off for but a moment.

_\- but I’m over that, you know? And Caleb misses you a lot, I can tell. So tell us when you can come over, okay?_

He suddenly feels more awake than he has all day. His heart begins to pick up speed and he knows his window for replying is running short. He picks through his jumbled brain to craft a response that at least _sounds_ composed.

_I am quite tired this evening. Perhaps I will visit tomorrow, if that is amenable._

He slumps back against the seat. He had successfully put off thinking about the Mighty Nein for over a fortnight now, and their return makes a complicated feeling turn in his gut.

Their last meeting had been tense, and the one before that near calamitous. He would rather face the full brunt of the Queen’s wrath than experience the sensation of their betrayal, the hurt in their eyes as they looked at him - through him, really - in the hold of their ship that night.

He rarely cried, but left alone with the weight of his consequences that night, a few pained tears had threatened to mist his eyes over completely. He had felt _wretched_. 

And what a confusing feeling it was. There was nothing of the sort when he was bargaining countless innocent lives in the pursuit of knowledge, when he essentially sparked the hottest flame of war between two countries - one of which being his own.

But there he had been, holding himself tightly and fighting back the urge to sob. It was strange, new, entirely unexpected and wholly terrifying. He resolved to distance himself, to work on whatever odd interpersonal conflict within his psyche had arisen from this nonsense.

It worked. Until that bubbly, accented voice had invaded his head and crumbled whatever crude and rudimentary walls he had begun to erect to keep these people out of his life.

It was nearly infuriating. But, a traitorous corner of himself notes, his leg has stopped shaking and the tension in his temples seems to have faded to a manageable level. He’s excited, even. Nervous, but excited nonetheless. Maybe even - dare he think it - _happy_.

Like he said, infuriating.

~

Court is interesting the following day. In the middle of an avid discussion surrounding the safety of the largest trade route between Rosohna and Asarius, the Queen abruptly stands.

“I’m taking to my chambers for the remainder of the day. I am not to be disturbed.” She departs, leaving the court in a state of dumbfounded silence Essek has never had the privilege of seeing before. The Dusk Captain sits as stoically as ever, though the furrow of her brow is clear to anyone who dares look close.

The Skysybil scoffs, which comes out as nearly a bark. She addresses the Dusk Captain.

“Go to her, then. You’re her partner too, you know. I can manage these folk if they get too rowdy.” As if released from a holding spell, the woman steps away as quickly as her cumbersome attire will allow.

The Skysybil clears her throat.

“Where were we?”

Court passes by then rather quickly and without further incident. All people seem to want to do is speak in hushed tones about the Queen’s sudden disappearance. Before the Skysybil adjourns the lot of them for the day, Essek steps forward to address the room at large.

“You are all well aware that any speculation about the Queen’s health is highly discouraged. I would remind you that spreading needless gossip surrounding either her fitness as a ruler or the parts of her nature you find personally distasteful is a treasonous action punishable by death.” 

It’s easy enough to project the necessary amount of threatening authority into his voice and there is a noticeable lack of further vocal involvement from those looking on. As people begin to file out, the Skysybil fixes him with a gracious nod.

“Good to curb it when you can.”

“It is only my duty.”

Ingratiating himself to the highest royal authorities in a frankly pathetic attempt to gain leniency when his complicated web of lies and deceit disintegrates around him is hardly dutiful, but the falsehood is easy to speak.

Today’s paperwork is light. He wonders why the Luxon has decided to shine upon him so brightly as he finishes the last of his more pressing work by the early afternoon.

As he exits the Bastion, a nervous thrill works its way through him. He had only given Jester the most tenuous of acceptances, hadn’t even informed her of his preferred arrival time. He ensures that no one is within earshot, traces a sigil in the air.

_I am currently free from my responsibilities for a time. Would this be an appropriate time for me to visit?_

The response takes less than a second.

_Oh my gosh, yeah! Come over right now and you can help me do some art and stuff, and there is some leftover stuff from-_

He waits for another _Sending_ , but it doesn’t come. He wonders if the rest of them are as receptive to seeing him as Jester. Did they even know he was planning to visit? Or did she extend the offer to him without the rest of them hearing?

He thinks of his home, his lab, huge and void of life waiting for him to return. Before he knows it, he’s nearly at their doorstep.

He rubs his wrists beneath his mantle, thinks that bringing another bottle of wine would have been a wise decision. Or maybe that was something reserved solely for friends. He doesn’t know what his relationship is with these people anymore, not really.

His first knocks garner him no response. He’s just beginning to think this excursion is a doomed effort when the door flies open and Jester’s eyes lock onto his own.

“Essek!” She shouts gleefully, tumbling into him. He’s been hugged by her before, but this is so far removed from that previous experience he feels it might as well be completely novel. Her arms lock around his, and _good gods_ she’s strong. Her horns uncomfortably press into his chest and when she speaks, it’s a muffled yell.

“Oh my gosh so much has happened I have to tell you all about it!” Gratefully, she releases him from her grip and teeters backwards on her heels, hands folded behind her and tail curling above her head.

It’s so nice to see her smiling face again. His thumping heart slows fractionally.

“Hello, Jester.” 

She beams and he can see the sharp points of four of her teeth gleam. And then she’s spinning and rushing into the house, leaving him to glide ahead and shut the door behind. 

The tinkling chime of bells ring out and Essek is reminded of how quickly these people have made this house into a home.

No one comes running to see the visitor as heralded by the chimes, so he follows the clattering noise of where he assumes Jester has gone off to. She’s in the dining room, peering over one of the tables that’s completely covered with a large, flexible canvas.

“Doesn’t this look so good?”

He sees the majority of the canvas is covered in a deep, rich purple that extends across each side, above it a series of colors that lighten as they near the top. It’s certainly evocative.

“I’m afraid I do not have much of an eye for art. This is a personal project of yours?”

“It’s for the happy room!” She smiles, as if Essek is supposed to know what this means.

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s where you go to be happy. Duh. I’m making paintings to hang on the walls.”

He nods, stepping closer. She snatches one of the paintbrushes from the half full cup of water it had been sitting in and extends the handle towards him.

“Do you want to try?”

“Oh, I would not want to ruin your work.” He wasn’t lying about his experience with art. He wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between an antique sculpture and some artfully arranged garbage. 

But she’s pressing the brush into his hand anyway, moving his fingers closed around it.

“Just dip the brush here and run it across, okay?”

It takes a moment to acquaint himself with the tug of the paint-thickened bristles against the fabric of the canvas. 

He isn’t sure what the goal is here. He opens his mouth to tell her as much but she claps her palm to her forehead, smearing a patch of violet paint on it in the process.

“I should tell Caleb you’re here!”

His relaxation fades. The paint on his stilled brush forms a large, eye catching blot.

“If he does not wish to see me…”

“Don’t be stupid!” It comes out of her mouth like _stew-pid_ , with an egregious amount of syllables. And then she’s sweeping out of the room, leaving him to lean on the crutch of his own anxiety.

What if Caleb didn’t want to so much as look at him? What if he had changed his stance on forgiveness, found that Essek truly was past the point of redemption and therefore a lost cause?

He has little time to meditate on such possibilities before Jester bounds back into the room, Caleb in tow.

The man looks different. It’s been but a scant few weeks and he looks changed in some indeterminate way. He’s wearing a dark, high-necked sweater that contrasts highly with the paleness of his skin, and his hair is pulled back simply - as if out of necessity rather than vanity.

There’s a strip of red color across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, as if he’s in a state of permanent embarrassment. His eyes are the same shocking shade of blue they’ve always been, and they’re regarding Essek with clear apprehension.

 _Well, it’s not abject contempt_ , he thinks to himself. 

He smiles, hoping it appears more polite than pained.

“Hello.” It’s as good a start as any.

“Hello, Essek.”

“It’s nice to see you again.” Essek could dance the dance of meaningless, impotent pleasantries as the day is long.

“ _Ja_. You as well. You are…” He trails off, uncertain.

 _A traitorous criminal? No longer welcome in this house?_ Essek braces.

“...dripping paint onto the floor.” His eyes fall to where the forgotten paintbrush in Essek’s hand is slowly coloring the wooden panels beneath their feet. 

Essek rushes to place the brush back into its cup of water. He doesn’t flush often, in fact he doesn't recall even the last time he did so. But he feels it now, spreading across his lower face like a slap.

“I apol-” Before he can finish, Jester is blowing an impressive raspberry.

“Don’t be sorry, Essek! It gives the house more character, you know? Veth tried to shoot a fruit off of Beau’s head once, and the bolt stuck into the wall so good even Yasha couldn’t pull it out. And she’s super duper strong.” Jester points to the far wall of the dining room and sure enough, the back half of a crossbow bolt is embedded firmly into the wood at eye level.

It's a simple enough action to raise his hand and cast a gravitational spell to wedge the bolt slowly backwards until it’s free. He floats it into his own hand, holds it out to Jester who is looking at him with big, starry eyes.

“Wow, Essek, that was so cool!”

“I’m afraid I can’t do much about the hole left behind.”

“Oh, I’m a pretty great carpenter so I can fix it no problem.”

He has no idea if she’s joking or not, settles on giving her a small smile. She grins back, then casts her eyes to the side as if considering something.

“I need to get some paints from my room.” And she’s gone in a flutter of her green skirts, leaving Essek and Caleb alone.

Ah. Well played, Jester. He meets Caleb’s eyes and the man is simply looking at him. There doesn’t appear to be any hidden malice in his expression, but it's still under that same cautious guard as before. 

“I’m assuming your excursion went as well as you had hoped?”

“Yes. Jester should be the one to tell you about that, I think. Though there were some intriguing creatures and structures on that island I would appreciate getting your opinion of.”

“Oh?”

“My notes are kept in the study. If you wouldn’t mind?” He gestures to the open door, leads Essek through a series of halls before they arrive at a spacious, though currently cluttered, room.

The large writing desk is brimming with open books, loose papers scrawled with near unintelligible shorthand, empty inkwells and their corresponding nubbled quills. 

Caleb navigates the space with efficiency, grabbing for a worn, closed journal of leather. While flipping through the pages, he slides a nearby wooden stool closer with one of his ankles.

“You see, these pits of tar…”

They sit together for a long while, Caleb describing the various strange phenomena of this island - Rumblecusp - and Essek responding with applicable pieces of his own knowledge.

Some of these things he had read about, such as this hooded creature that seemed to suck the life out of onlookers. But pieces of the planes of reality abruptly transporting themselves into this one? That was new.

When there’s finally a lull in their conversation, Caleb taps his fingers against the edge of the desk. The line of his mouth is tense. He speaks, but doesn’t meet Essek’s eyes.

“How have you been faring?”

It’s so tempting to deflect. So alluring to give an empty, unsubstantial answer that’s equal parts reassuring and condescending. 

But something stops him. He can’t say what biological or emotional mechanism is urging him to be honest, knows that such a thing is surely a signal of unprecedented danger.

“I have been doing as well as could be expected. Still looking over my shoulder and sipping my wine slowly.”

 _Tell him._ It’s a whisper from somewhere deep in him. Maybe it slithered unbidden from between the teeth of that maw. It was still open, still wanting.

“Truth be told, I am restless.”

“Oh?” Caleb turns his head towards him. One lock of hair has loosened from the tie atop his head, and it hangs down over the concave hollow of the bones around his eye.

It bothers Essek for a reason he cannot articulate. Perceived sloppiness, perhaps. 

That must be it.

“I’ve never taken much pleasure in the daily humdrum of politics, but it seems less fulfilling now than it’s ever been. The work is rather draining, and I’m left with little energy to advance my own pursuits.”

“I don’t suppose there are many opportunities for vacation offered to the Shadowhand.”

Essek huffs.

“No, there are not. And I doubt the legions of petulants in our court would be too happy to lose their preferred target of mockery, either.” He sounds bitter to himself. Caleb’s eyebrows knit together.

“You are mocked?”

“Constantly. It’s merely background noise to me, I assure you. I believe I spoke to you about the expectations placed upon myself, someone in my station who is as young as I am. I’m afraid it’s simply another extension of such.”

Caleb still looks troubled.

“They should be so lucky that you hold your station in such esteem. If they had seen you crush the life out of another as I have, I doubt their tongues would be so loose.”

Essek laughs, surprised. 

“You’re not wrong.”

“You look youthful despite your years, as well. That might be irksome.”

Despite his years? Essek has to repress the urge to guffaw now. In terms of his age and consecution, he is but a toddling child in the eyes of most established members of his Den, or any Den.

But, he’s lived far beyond the normal life expectancy of many species of intelligent humanoid, including humans. Luxon, he must seem ancient to this group. He’s suddenly struck by curiosity.

“How old are you?” He belatedly wonders if this is a rude thing to ask of a human. Caleb seems unoffended.

“I am thirty-three.”

Oh my. If he were standing, he might have had to sit. What was he doing thirty-three years ago? Trailing after his mother while she attempted to secure him a proper royal apprenticeship, hardly managing to control his awkward, newly matured sense of self as he attuned to the feeling of true adulthood.

Imagining Caleb being born of that time, maturing fully and undergoing the trials of his life is a sobering thought. He makes a note to keep this information present in mind during their interactions.

“I didn’t want to assume anything. I’m not quite versed in such things.”

“That is understandable. The looks I receive from the denizens of this city are enough to tell me not many people here are.” He doesn’t sound the least bit upset, but something inside Essek flares.

“If you are ever hassled, please tell me. I will end the conflict swiftly.”

Caleb laughs then. More of a low, short chuckle. He doesn’t recall ever hearing the man truly _laugh_.

“I appreciate it. Beauregard takes more offense to it than I do.” And as if summoned by the utterance of her name, the woman’s dark face appears at the side of the doorway into the study.

“Hey, there’s some-” Her voice cuts out as she notices Essek. Her eyes narrow.

“You’re here. Cool.”

Caleb clears his throat.

“Did you require something?”

“Veth needs your help in the kitchen. She’s got this tub and shit, I don’t know.”

“I will be right there.”

Beauregard nods, looks at Essek.

“Some of us like you again, obviously, but some of us still really fuckin’ don’t. So, uh, remember that. And don’t bug our house or some shit.” With that, she’s gone.

“She is still as warm as I remember. Of course, I don’t blame her for her mistrust.”

Caleb lets out a gusty breath. He seems to want to say something, then appears to steer off course at the last moment.

“There are some personal arcane-related things I wish to discuss with you, but the day is running long and I can imagine I have already kept you beyond the time you expected to spend here.”

“It’s not an issue, I had planned for such a thing. If you wish, I will be at my residence in the early evening tomorrow.”

“I would appreciate that.” And then they’re looking at one another again, Caleb’s eyes boring into his own. There is no precedent for thinking such a simple action could be construed as _prying_ , but still. It feels like he’s being pried upon.

He wonders what Caleb is searching for in him. If he’ll ever find it is another question entirely.

Essek stands then, instinctively casting the spell to levitate. He smooths the fabric of his mantle and nods.

“Give the others my regards.”

“Yes. _Gute nacht_ , Essek.”

He thankfully runs into no one else on his way to the front door, though the ringing chimes (he had forgotten about the chimes, of course) betray his leaving in any case.

He busies himself the rest of the evening with tidying his laboratory, setting the strewn jars of components on their rightful shelves and clearing any lingering chalk remains from the grooves of the more well-used glyph lines engraved into the floor.

When he’s finished, he even manages reading four more chapters of his book.

A soothing evening, really. He ponders the implications of such a thing for long enough to realize the feelings that emerge from wherein are the exact ones he would prefer to distance himself from.

Despite this, his trance comes to him easily.

~

Court is nothing less than a surreal dream the following day. Or perhaps by most perspectives, a surreal nightmare.

It begins with a message from the Queen, delivered magically unto him as he keeps a smooth pace up the steps of the Lucid Bastion.

 _I will not be present today. Demand respect if need be._ Swift, cold, and delivered exactingly. 

And indeed, the Queen is absent, her seat vacant for the entirety of the day. The Skysybil spends a fair amount of time quelling fears and avoiding inquiries as to the Queen’s health. Those gathered are told that both the Queen and the Dusk Captain have been hastily escorted to Asarius ahead of a pressing political issue.

Essek thinks that if anyone in the throne room truly believes this, they’d surely have a more fruitful career mucking stalls than as courtiers. He has to assume the Skysybil was given ample enough time to conjure up a more suitable lie than that, berates himself for not stepping in before her.

And though there is an undercurrent of tension, the meeting proceeds as usual.

For an hour at most.

There had been a small riot late yesterday evening - more of a bar fight, Essek thinks - at a popular tavern on the west end of the Gallimaufry. There were no casualties, but two civilians had suffered critical injuries while a Watch soldier had received a grim wound on his abdomen.

There was no proper consensus among patrons and witnesses as to what had started the fray, some of those bearing more contemptuous tidings towards the Watch insisting that the soldier had initiated the aggression. Others claimed a game of cards gone wrong.

The court is split. Fractured, really; some argue for harsher punishments against those who participated in the fight, others suggesting possible repercussions against the Watch soldier for his involvement. A few make the point that grievous injuries are warning enough to deter such a thing from occurring again.

A voice cuts out from the din then, high and grating. It’s an older drow man, a member of Den Hythenos. Elgar, Essek recalls.

“I think it’s preposterous to pretend we aren’t all thinking about the _nature_ of those involved.” He all but sneers this, and the words he’s chosen to emphasize leave no room for any other interpretation.

The Skysybil’s back straightens. She’s often come to the defense of the goblin-kin in the city and Xhorhas at large, by desire and necessity alike. She had also helmed the initiative to reach out and persuade non-drow members of the country into following the light of the Luxon, and quite successfully at that. 

A few people begin to respond to Elgar, though their voices meld together unintelligibly. The Skysybil slams her staff downward, the resultant _crack!_ echoing harshly throughout the enormity of the chamber.

“Elgar. Speak your mind. Plainly.” The skin of her fingers is stretched painfully taut at the top of her staff. Her eyes shine dangerously.

“It was only a matter of time until it came to this. Allowing these things into our city, encouraging them to worship in the light of the Luxon was the most abominable decision this monarchy has ever made. They’re not civilized creatures. They’re _goblins!_ ” His speech becomes more impassioned as he continues, culminating in a near manic shout.

As the man demands the attention of the court, Essek feels that it seems only he hears the Skysybil’s bare feet take two, lightning quick, definitive steps as the man speaks.

“ _Hold your tongue!_ ” Her voice has never before racketed so epically - and painfully - around the pillars and roof of the royal chamber. 

A thin, near imperceptible beam of energy shoots from the carved gemstone dodecahedron atop her staff, focusing to a point directly on the apex of Elgar’s forehead.

Those who would have voiced their agreement or displeasure instead stare in horror as blood begins to trickle from both of Elgar’s eyes, flooding a wet path down his face and dripping off his chin. In the stunned silence, Essek can hear the slow _plip-plip_ of falling droplets striking the ground.

Well then. Some of the more faint hearted onlookers begin to shriek and clutch at the arms of those nearest, while a few others draw on whatever meager supply of found bravado they possess to grab Elgar to prevent him from slumping to the floor.

The Skysybil addresses two nearby guards quietly, who swiftly part the crowd and each take an arm in their gauntlets to drag the man’s now lax body out of the wide doors of the throne room. She moves to Essek, pausing only to give him a strange look, equal parts fearful and furious.

“Fix this.”

If Essek had ever before described a meeting as descending into pandemonium, he retroactively apologizes to himself. There’s yelling, scrapping, pushing, and more concerningly, _panic_.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. He steps in front of the throne, raising his hands. He levitates a little higher, for the effect.

Gravity condenses in a wave outward from his palms, blanketing the room with a heavy weight. The clothes and looser sections of skin of all those present are tugged none too gently towards himself, and everyone’s eyes turn to him regardless of their consent. Whatever emotion had been present in these people before is now replaced with _fear_.

“We are all well aware that these past few days have been intense. Court will be adjourned pending the return of the Queen to the city. I remind you all of your loyalty to the Dynasty and Den Kryn, as well as your obligation of piety to the Luxon.” He releases the spell then and there is a collective series of gasping breaths.

He is alone with the remaining guards within minutes. They refuse to meet his eye.

The rest of the day is riddled with couriers delivering him messages from concerned nobles, drafting the damage report of the throne room incident, and of course - sifting through a mountainous pile of paperwork.

In the interim between tasks he leans heavily his elbows on his desk and ruminates.

The Queen certainly isn’t “away on business.” He considers scrying on her, decides against it.

He’s reasonably sure that she isn’t sick. Her gait hasn’t wavered, her eyes not twitched and her skin remains the same hue and texture he’s always known of her.

Something is different, though. Her demeanor. She’s harsher in her decision making, more brutal and unwilling to listen to differing opinions. Essek thinks she’s snapped more at Waccoh in the past year than she has in all of the time he’s worked under her.

So what then? A mental illness? A curse? A rapid degradation of the rational mind caused by immense stress?

The timepiece on his desk _ticks_ five times. Thank the Luxon he could leave the Bastion behind, at least temporarily forget how the structure of this monarchy is buckling, swaying dangerously beneath the still freshly sprouting Dynasty’s feet.

His first and only stop is a bakery nestled in the back corner of a side street, just at the edge of where the Firmaments end and the towering stone wall that separates it from the Gallimaufry begins.

The building is small, the interior neat and clean. There are no places to sit, only a long wooden counter with a few display cases set upon it.

The smell is quite nice, he must admit. A duergar woman shoulders the door on the far side of the shop open and, noticing his presence, pushes a set of wooden stairs to the counter and steps to the highest plank.

“What’ll it be, then?”

Essek tries to recall the last pastry he saw in Jester’s possession, attempts to spot it in the display case like one would spot a pickpocketer in a crowd. He settles on something that looks vaguely familiar, a cinnamon and sugar twist that he orders a dozen of.

“Nasty business today.”

He pauses where he’s removing a pinch of silver coins from the pouch at his side. When he doesn’t respond, she continues.

“Heard someone died in the Bastion.”

Ah. He has not a clue whether or not this woman is aware of his name, his position of Shadowhand. To say anything in kind would be denigrating to some aspect of his job. He puts the silver on the counter instead, takes the neatly wrapped parcel of treats.

“You should not believe everything you hear.”

He makes the short trek to his house, mildly irritated the entire way.

Elgar was merely deemed permanently comatose. Certainly not _dead_.

~

He can’t say what exact time it is when the knock comes. He smooths down a few errant hairs before opening the door.

Caleb is standing there. Just Caleb. Essek glances around, assumes the others are waiting to surprise him from the shadows. When they don’t, Caleb speaks.

“Is this a bad time?”

“No, of course not. Please come in.” Essek takes a few steps back to let Caleb pass the threshold. 

He leads them to the dinner table, feels the echo of the last time they were seated here together, as brief as it was.

“I apologize. I was under the assumption that the rest of the party would be coming as well.”

“Ah. I informed them that we planned on studying some arcane spellwork in depth. They were not so enthusiastic after that.”

He’s holding a small stack of loose papers to his chest with the use of a worn, leather book. His long gray tunic still looks expensive for the amount of wear showing at the seams of the shoulders and arms. His hair is pulled back atop his head again.

Essek gestures over to the small wrapped bag on the table, pulls it towards them.

“There are pastries here, if you would like some. Again, I planned this with Jester in mind.”

“I like pastries.” He plucks one from the bag with two fingers.

“I’ll get us a drink.”

In his kitchen, he nearly flings the water pitcher into the ceiling with the force he uses to lift it.

It’s empty. Of _course_ it’s empty. His Lolth worshiping ancestors were rolling with laughter in the afterlife, cursing Essek to the fate of being a terrible host this evening. 

All evenings, really. He’s well aware the cookies he had bought last time didn’t cut it.

He pivots on his feet to the wine rack in the corner, picking out an expensive enough looking bottle. He disposes of the cork and snatches two goblets to pour a generous amount into each.

He finds Caleb in the sitting room, standing and perusing his bookshelves. He straightens like he’s been caught doing something inappropriate. Essek hands him a goblet.

“Anything pique your interest?”

“I do not know Undercommon unfortunately. Though I believe it’s time I learned a new language, anyway.”

“What else do you speak?” Now this is curious.

“Well. I speak pretty good Zemnian.”

Essek’s ears flatten against his head with such speed he swears he hears them make a sound.

“Well, thank you for coming, I can escort you out…” He starts to walk out of the room to punctuate his annoyance, but Caleb stays put. His shoulders are shaking, and he’s making the closest approximation to a laugh Essek has ever heard from him. 

He wipes a non-existent tear from his eye and shakes his head.

“Ah, no. I am fluent in Sylvan and Celestial. Though Celestial is a tricky one, it is much better suited to songs and hymns than simple conversation.”

“Have you studied it at length?”

“Not for a long time. Since my days as a student, probably.”

Even more curious. It was near impossible to do a background check on citizens of the Empire even in as connected a position he held; every new piece of information that colored Caleb’s image further was intriguing.

“Why don’t we move to the tower? I’m interested to see what you have to show me.”

“ _Ja_ , of course.”

~

He’s severely underestimated the man yet again. Caleb demonstrates one of his spells for him: lays out a number of amber pieces and speaks a word to shift the book he’s been carrying into a small pocket dimension.

Essek is scanning his notes when Caleb mentions some of the finer details of the spell’s creation. His head shoots up.

“The basis of this, the dimensional shifting, you manipulated the weave of your own accord with no prior point of origin to reference?”

“Mostly. I have seen one other thing like it before, though I could not study it long enough to discern anything specific.”

It’s impressive. Doubly, maybe triply so considering Caleb is doing the work on such things without the guidance of another wizard of standing. And if he knows anything of the company he keeps, he might have done most of it on the slanting deck of a ship or at the base of an active volcano. 

He informs Essek that it would be unwise to demonstrate his other spell: an offensive, fire-based manner of attack that involves multiple beacons of flame that home in on their targets before detonating and causing - in extreme cases - partial to full disintegration.

He combs through Caleb’s notes, transferring interesting and relevant information into one of his own small journals. It’s fascinating the process Caleb goes through, how differently oriented his approach to formulating arcane magic is compared to his own.

“Do you think with some modification that the height limitation you are experiencing could be mitigated?”

Caleb’s eyes brighten.

“How so?”

Essek walks to one of the boards hung on the eastern wall, thankful he took the time before to clean it off whatever scrawlings it held before. Caleb follows and watches as he begins to draw out the first necessary equation.

And then they’re off.

Minutes of hasted scribbling give way to hours of writing, erasing, checking notes, re-checking notes, revising equations, revising notes. He and Caleb fall in seamless tandem, much like they had when developing the transmogrification spell, though there’s less frenzied pressure here.

Still, where he would usually find it annoying to have his sentences finished for him, he finds he minds it less when it’s Caleb doing so.

It’s efficient, you know. Less energy he has to expend.

They work for long enough that Essek begins to feel a twinge in his back from leaning over to stare at his own writing set upon the table for so long. Caleb stifles a yawn against his knuckles.

“It is probably a good idea to end it here tonight. I am sure at least some of the others are still waiting for me to arrive home.”

“Very well. I am available tomorrow evening as well, though I cannot promise a repeat of tonight. Still, I feel we have made good progress.”

“Absolutely. It is…” He trails off, looking torn between finding the correct words and wondering if he should speak them when he does. He looks behind Essek’s head, then somewhere around his shoulder.

“...very nice to work with someone of such an intellectual caliber, so to speak. It has been a long time since that has happened for me. So thank you.”

Essek can feel himself preening.

“Of course. You as well. You bring a, unique perspective to this work.”

Caleb’s chin nearly touches his chest. He mutters his thanks and bundles the papers he had brought back into his arms.

Once Caleb is gone, the weight of his exhaustion finally settles upon him. He makes his way back up the stairs to his room, expending enough remaining energy to tug his shirt from his body before collapsing on the lounge chair.

~

Essek has researched very little about what non-elves call “dreams.” He knows that they involve some manner of usually outlandish fantasy and uncontrollable nonsensical images.

What happens to him on occasion then, when he’s deeply enveloped in a state of trance and on the dagger’s edge of being unaware of his surroundings, must be something akin to dreaming.

He’s outside of himself, looking upon his own body working in his laboratory. Caleb is sitting next to him, closer than they had been earlier that day.

The color of his hair is striking. More than striking, it’s mesmerizing. He finds himself focusing solely on the copper shine of it, how it falls in soft waves where it’s not contained within the cloth band at the crown of his head.

And as if a sunbeam had pierced through the solidness of the wall beside them, light catches on the redness of it, creating a kaleidoscopic halo around the man’s head. The colors shift and turn, creating a magnificent pattern of colors that never settle in one place.

Essek comes back to himself in the early morning, and though the dream - if that’s what it really was - begins to fade from his memory in the time it takes him to dress, echoes of color seem to flicker around the periphery of his vision like sunspots.

~

The Queen returns. She speaks sternly once of the value of composure and sits in silent watch for the remainder of court. There are no outbursts or further transgressions, and Essek is beckoned to the throne once everyone is dismissed.

“I am told you handled yourself quite well yesterday. I commend you.”

“Thank you, your Majesty.” He looks as searchingly at her as he dares for the moment he is allowed. She looks as she has for years.

The Skysybil pointedly refuses to meet his eyes as he passes.

~

The week passes eventfully, in terms of his personal interests. His work as Shadowhand remains dull and time-consuming, at times redundant. But it is work Essek has become accustomed to, and he carries out his tasks as diligently as he would if he were one-hundred again.

But his life truly begins in the evening, when the floor of his laboratory is coated with fine sheens of blue and yellow powder, bowls of clay filled with brackish water, pieces of coal and bits of fur. And paper. Endless rolling scrolls and sheets of parchment soaked with fresh ink.

He finds that he saves a truly ludicrous amount of time while Caleb is present. Minutes spent performing minor dunamantic spells to retrieve components or necessary objects are rendered obsolete by simply asking the man’s help.

And not just that; Caleb’s mind is a wonder. He has a near perfect recall of most things, including the content of any books or text he’s read. More than that, he has the applicable knowledge to turn that memorization into practical use.

Essek feels indignant only once, the first time Caleb had corrected the source of his information on minor warding spells. Where others would hide their smirk at his misremembering or worse, mock him outright, Caleb spoke nearly unconsciously, moving on neatly to the next topic.

All in all, it’s a rather perfect system. Only a few hiccups here and there.

One evening, Caleb’s cat had jumped onto the table where Essek was working. He thought he had pushed it gently enough, but the thing had meowed pitfully loud as it hit the floor. Caleb was there in an instant.

“I presume you did not hit my cat?” His gaze had been cold, furious. He was cradling the cat in his arms like a baby.

“I merely nudged him. I promise.” He was surprised to find almost as much fury in Caleb’s eyes as Essek had while admitting his own betrayal.

The ice melted slowly as he seemed to accept the apology. He put the cat down next to Essek’s feet.

“You make nice now, hmm?”

Essek recalls having no idea which one of them he was talking to.

But Caleb is becoming more comfortable with his presence than he ever has in the past. Or maybe he was warming to the concept of socialization beyond that of his group or pure necessity.

Regardless, their eyes hold on one another more often whilst speaking, and Caleb no longer pulls away like he’s been burned when their hands brush.

It’s interesting to see the man so often, to not have his visits broken up by weeks long periods of Caleb going off and gallivanting through some treacherous Exandrian death trap of nature. 

Their work begins to vary after they complete the enhancement to Caleb’s _Web of Fire_. 

One time they spend the night testing the dexterity of his _Earthen Grasp_ by having him put it through a series of experiments, including: testing its maximum speed, throwing weights near to it and having it catch them, and running the flexible ends of the paw over and under a set of large metal dowels.

It’s more than arcane science. It’s…

... _fun_.

How bizarre.

~

It’s barely past dinner time when Essek accidentally creates a sulfurous cloud of toxic gas that forces him to clear his lab, set open the tower door as well as every window he knows of in the house.

He’s sitting with his arms crossed on his front glassy-stone steps when Caleb comes into view. Essek holds up a hand to cut him off when he begins to speak.

“Let it be known that an unfertilized roc’s egg should never be combined with the pollen from a sea holly and black powder.”

“It is noted. Is it safe to enter?”

“It should be by now. But the smell…”

“Ah.”

There’s silence for a long moment.

“Would you be averse to a walk?”

He hasn’t been on a _walk_ , one for leisure’s sake, in years.

“I suppose not."

They’re but a pace outside the gates of his estate when he flounders. Where does one go when the goal is to be goalless? Essek was never much for loitering around.

“I have heard there are many botanical gardens in this part of the city.”

Ah, yes. The perfect aimless task: stare at the petals of a flower until you become listless enough to go and stare at the next. In fact, he knows just the place.

The Royal Garden is by no means the metropolitan sprawl that many other locations in Rosohna boast, but in terms of uniqueness and certainly volume, it ranks high above the rest.

The guards at the wide glass doors to the Gardens minutely bow their heads at him as they pass through. Caleb stays close at his side, fiddling with the end of his scarf.

“You are sure I am allowed here?”

“You are a human from the Empire, true. But you are also a Hero of the Dynasty.” He tries to sidestep coming off as rude with this comment, correcting his tone into something more playful. 

“And,” he tugs lightly at the frayed hem of the scarf to remove it from Caleb’s fingers, “you are my associate.” He adjusts the fabric to look more _presentable_ and less _lucky vagrant_.

Caleb blushes dark, but doesn’t move away.

“There are interesting things to look at in here, _ja?_ ”

“Of course. The plaques are in Undercommon, but easy enough to translate.”

The next hour sees them trail a path through the hanging, spider-like leaves of the _alsine_ trees that have scaled the wall and jutted their branches out to hang over them.

Caleb asks Essek to translate the more interesting plaques, but is thereafter content to simply watch the plant life as it grows and breathes in this miniscule microcosm of one possible future of Xhorhas.

Essek is content to watch Caleb.

He is not attractive by any drow standard. His strong, angled features. His height. His human face. His human everything, to be fair.

But there is something about him. His calloused hands, the frailty that belies his intellectual capability, his accent. And not least, he is _forbidden_ in a way, is he not? It’s such a rarity to see human wanderers in Rosohna, and many citizens will live entire lives without so much as seeing one in person.

“What does this one say?”

Essek approaches where Caleb is standing, leans over the metal rail to pluck one crimson petal from the flower he’s looking at. He holds it like he might a coin across from Caleb’s wide-eyed expression.

“Watch.” Where the stem of the plant lay torn a new petal emerges, grows in nearly an instant.

“That is fascinating.” His eyebrows are furrowed and he’s scanning the plant like he might unlock its regenerative secrets with a hard enough look.

“The _afya z’haan._ It is highly sought after for its use in protective magics and healing potions.”

He offers the petal to Caleb and watches as he rubs it between his fingers, still awed.

His wonderment is also an attractive trait. Essek catches himself slipping from the realms of the theoretical, shakes his head. He follows where Caleb has moved along the stone path.

They finish in the Gardens and walk in amiable silence back to his manor. He bids Caleb to wait outside while he inspects the rooms of the house for any lingering odors. His hopes are built and dashed with the climbing of his stairs. 

He faces Caleb, heaves a great sigh.

“I don’t suppose you are feeling peckish?”

“I could eat. There is a place I frequent not far from here.”

“A favorite?”

“No,” he answers truthfully on instinct. His willingness to lie is so dullened while he orbits Caleb, he almost wonders if there is some kind of magic at play.

“If there was any occasion for the comfort of a favorite meal, I think it would be today.”

Well, in for a copper, in for a gold. Besides, he has no earthly idea of the quality or atmosphere of any other food-serving location here.

“My favorite eatery is not located in the Firmaments. It is on the outer edge of the Gallimaufry.”

“Let us go, then.”

“You are an intelligent man. I do not need to explain why the Shadowhand strolling around the more roughened parts of this city, with a human companion no less, is unwise.”

Caleb weaves his hands together, claps them once. His appearance morphs, becoming that of a thin male drow with hair tied back into a high ponytail. His clothes look more worn than before.

“You are an intelligent man. I do not need to explain why what you are suggesting would not be an issue.”

“Well played.” Essek chooses to disguise himself as a slightly older drow, aiming somewhere in the three-hundred year range. He downgrades his clothing to a simple dark tunic and pants. And for flair, he gives himself an impressive side braid.

“Lead the way.”

The walk isn’t an excruciating distance, but it does take over an hour and Essek thinks he’d gladly trade the aching burn in his thighs for the mental effort required to maintain his levitation.

But as they cross the gilded gate that separates the Firmaments from the Gallimaufry, he feels a rare sort of excitement build in his stomach. It’s been years - decades - since he’s traveled through this area of the city with anything less than an escort and for anything else besides royal business.

The buildings are less refined, less deliberate. Between the eaves of each hang strings of lanterns which pour green light upon the faces of merchants pulling their stock through carts, buskers on street corners vying for the attention of passersby, entrepreneurial hustlers attempting to hock cheap wares to unsuspecting drunks.

And they weave through throngs of people with naught a speck of attention paid to their persons. Essek feels a lightness, a near-giddiness resulting from a potent mix of this jovial atmosphere and his relative anonymity. 

A goblin knocks into his leg as they walk.

“Watch it you big, purple bastard!” 

Essek’s eyebrows shoot up. He turns, but the offender is already blent into the crowd behind. He looks at Caleb, who's wearing an equally surprised expression.

A pure, vulgar insult delivered flatly and aggressively to his face.

It’s actually kind of hilarious. He laughs silently, loses his breath with the effort of it. He leans against the exterior of a nearby building while Caleb regards him curiously.

“If only those in politics were unafraid to say such things.”

“We’d have a more just society indeed.”

It’s another ten minutes of walking until they come upon the hanging sign with the words _The Brass Mouse_ etched in faded gold lettering on its surface. The wood of its walls is that of deep maroon, and the construction of the building itself is a step above haphazard.

The interior is reminiscent of a hollowed out barn, reinforced with iron fittings. Lining them are shelves stocked full of trinkets varying from rusted yet still impressively designed flagons to polished and bleached animal skulls. 

A fully stoked hearth roars from the side of the expansive chamber, bathing half the area in a warm orange glow.

There are thirty tables total, and all but a few are filled with drow, duergar and goblin-kin alike drinking, eating and talking. A few men in the corner bend secretively over a game of cards.

No one spares a glance as they pass by, and Essek secures a small table near to the hearth.

They settle into their seats as a barmaid sweeps over to take their drink order. Essek doesn’t recognize her, disappointingly.

“A wine for me. Top-shelf, if you will. I am not picky.” He and the woman both look to Caleb, who is wearing a look of rapidly increasing worry. He makes a gesture to Essek as if something is wrong with his throat.

Right.

“And an ale for my companion. Speckled Hen, if you have it.” If she thinks their behavior strange, she’s distracted by someone calling for her from somewhere behind.

“The detail of your accent slipped my mind. I apologize if you do not like the ale I selected.” He has to lean forward to speak at his preferred volume in the din of the tavern.

“I am not worried, I have drunk ale that has tasted like wastewater and found it palatable.”

“Just as well. I must admit I’m mildly disappointed you did not attempt an Undercommon accent.”

“I am terrible at accents.” Writ on his face is a resigned weariness.

“A shame. We should look into mimicry magics next, this conversation is inspiring.”

Did he just say _we?_ When did that change happen, and so naturally too? Their drinks arrive then, and he presses his frown into the rim of his goblet.

“This is quite the place.”

“A favorite of my youth. It is easy to, how should I say it, blend in here.”

“That is something I relate to.” He holds his cup out and Essek puts his own forth to bump them together in a toast.

One drink turns into two, then three, swiftly into four. On his fifth, Caleb’s sixth if his count is correct, they each attempt a poor conjecture of what the conversation at the card table sounds like. Caleb implies that each of the men are sleeping with one another’s wives and Essek’s hand flies so fast to his mouth to smother his laugh he smacks himself in the nose.

Halfway through his sixth, he orders something to eat for the both of them and promptly forgets that he’s done that until two steaming dishes of meat and broth are placed before them. Some local wildling beast. Or something. It’s horrendously delicious, whatever it is.

They’re setting their utensils down when Caleb waves a hand to catch Essek’s attention.

“I have, I must tell you something.” He’s wearing a strange expression, one that dances between humor and horror on his drunken face.

“Please.”

He’s leaning in then, so much so that his elbows brace him against the table. The empty bowl below him rattles slightly with the weight of his invisible scarf. He attempts to whisper.

“One time, we used the beacon’s ability to manipulate chance to win a drinking contest.”

Whatever Essek had been expecting is sitting somewhere outside now, having a smoke from a pipe. The idea of Caleb’s stumbling, mismatched group of idiots manipulating a holy, infinitely powerful artifact for such a trivial matter hits him at an odd angle.

He considers the importance of the beacons in their society, how it is the crux of their religion. He considers the consecuted souls of his own nation that were either lost or gained while it lay in the hands of such people. 

He can almost think of nothing more deliciously blasphemous. He sees the faces of every self-righteous, brainless Luxon-ite philosopher in his head, their eyes bulging and their hands clenched into fists at the edges of their needlessly expensive robes.

He sees the Queen’s face as well, her ever present facade of carefully constructed distaste shattered like a fist into the heart of a mirror.

He laughs. He laughs and laughs. Caleb looks relieved.

“You are truly something else, Caleb Widogast.”

Something passes quick over Caleb’s face at hearing his own name that almost resembles disgust. Essek isn’t drunk enough to miss it happening, though he is too drunk to properly consider its meaning.

“It is nearing midnight. Should we be going soon?”

The tavern around them is as full as it’s been all night, but it’s always been a lively place and Essek trusts Caleb’s strange, uncanny sense of time.

“Probably a good idea.”

They maneuver themselves into the cool night air, and standing in the open Essek is suddenly less confident in his ability to walk a straight line. He looks down at his hands, finds that they’re sloppily attempting to cast his levitation spell without him realizing.

He says as much to Caleb, wiggling his fingers and bowing over with silent laughter. Good gods he’s drunk. He looks to Caleb, who is turning his head slowly at an angle.

“Do you hear that?”

He does; they follow the faint sound of music drifting from around the street corner to stand and watch the performance of a dirty street urchin boy and his rather impressive violin skills. People come and go as he transitions through a few pieces, some tossing pieces of copper and silver into the upturned hat placed on the street in front of him.

Finally, the boy raises his violin and gives a deep bow to the scattered clapping of those around. As they move along, Caleb steps forward to kneel to his level. He speaks for a few seconds, reaches out to take the boy’s hand and places something into it. Because Essek is looking as he is, he spots a shimmer of gold reflect for but a moment in the lantern light.

The boy is still grinning as they walk away.

“That was quite generous of you.”

“Ah, you know. It is a hard life, being on the streets.”

More information to slot away in his brain, in which there is growing a disconcertingly large part dedicated solely to Caleb.

They meander through the streets of the Gallimaufry. Essek is nearly knocked to the ground by a duergar and his partner as they dance rapturously to a lively street band. 

Caleb buys a fake timepiece from a goblin with the most impressive sideburns either of them have ever seen in their lives, and they have a good-natured argument about it.

“There is no reason for you to be indulging this city’s criminal enterprises.”

“There is a reason. It is to commemorate this night, Essek.”

“Mm. You are placing sentimentality over the law, correct? Is that what I’m hearing?”

“You are acting as if we exist outside of this reality. You are the Shadowhand, correct?” They’ve stopped next to one another and Caleb arches an eyebrow at him.

Is Caleb _teasing_ him? How fun. He quite literally thought the man didn’t have it in him. Well, he could still be right. It’s still terribly hard to tell, especially with that accent.

They walk for twenty more minutes, or at least it feels like. The worst of his drunkenness has worn off, and Essek feels pleasantly buzzed. 

But his feet are aching, pulsing in the arches with every step. He heaves a sigh, and at the next alleyway they pass by that’s big enough to fit the two of them, he grabs Caleb by the wrist and pulls him in.

It takes him two tries, and he silently prays that they won’t end up in his neighbor’s yard or gods forbid, phased through a temple wall, but he weaves his hands together and casts _Teleport_ on the both of them.

Thankfully, they both land on their feet in the center of Essek’s sitting room. In a moderately humorous display, they each drop their _Seeming_ spells at the same time.

It’s almost a shock to see Caleb’s real face again: the paleness of his skin, the line of his nose and jaw. He’s slightly sweaty and his blue eyes are bright. That same damned lock of hair there again, curling and covering most of his left eye.

Before Essek can stop himself, he’s reaching up to fold the lock of hair neatly behind Caleb’s ear.

Several things happen then.

First, at this distance apart Essek notices just how far he’s required to look up if he wishes to meet Caleb’s eyes.

Second, he watches Caleb’s expression darken, sharpen to a point. The black of his pupil swells as he parts his lips minutely to wet them.

Third, his hand stays where it is against Caleb’s ear, feeling the texture of it with his fingertips.

Fourth, and what he would consider most important, is that he and Caleb rush at each other to clash their mouths together in equal time.

Essek threads his hands through Caleb’s hair and tugs him downward, keeps him close enough to press their bodies together chest to calf. Caleb’s hands roam up his back to cup at his shoulders and hold him still.

Their lips slide together, and Essek opens Caleb’s mouth with his to start exploring, mapping the back and front of his teeth with his tongue. He tastes like ale and something else Essek can't place.

To his credit, Caleb is giving back as well as he gets. Or trying to. His movements are a little clumsy, a little jerky with something other than inebriation. 

Essek finds that he wants more than anything else in the world to make Caleb lose control, crack the airtight command he has over himself.

“Are you nervous?” He breathes against Caleb’s mouth as he walks him backward, all but shoving him backwards so he falls back onto the sofa. He makes an _oomph_ sound when he lands.

“Maybe. It has been a while since-” He’s cut off by the arrival of Essek on his lap, kissing him once again. Essek encourages him to turn and pull his legs onto the seat. 

Like this, he can brace himself with his palms against Caleb’s chest, can press the entirety of their bodies together. He slithers a hand underneath Caleb’s tunic and is rewarded with an overstimulated huff of breath against his chin.

“Gods.” His voice is low, his native accent thickened by arousal. Essek feels it prickle down the length of his spine, eyes gleaming downwards over the exposed strip of cream-colored skin above the waist of Caleb’s breeches.

“I’ve never done this with a human before.” He speaks while pressing his mouth against various spots around Caleb’s cheek, which means it comes a little muffled, but the effect is there.

He takes a short break from talking to assault Caleb’s mouth once more. When he finally pulls away, Caleb’s lips are shiny with spit and a vibrant shade of pink that Essek has trouble looking away from.

His voice wavers on his next words.

“Though I do not think there is an appreciable difference in our anatomies, it will be…” He meets Caleb’s eyes, sees the hunger of his own gaze reflected. 

“...intriguing nonetheless,” he finishes, setting his fingers to work sliding up the fabric from Caleb’s midsection. Once his tunic is off he tosses it to the side, somewhere on the floor. When he resettles, he finds himself absorbed in the sight of Caleb’s bared skin.

Varying patterns of chestnut hair wind a meandering path underneath his collarbone. There are a few scars as well, rippled lines of skin and puckered starbursts that dot the landscape of his chest. He skims over them with minor curiosity. 

What really interests him are the brown dots that scatter across Caleb’s front. It almost feels as though someone had come along and painted him. They’re everywhere, a smattering of colored pinpricks, on his stomach, below the midline of his ribcage.

“These markings…” He’s barely given himself permission to move his hands before he finds the both of them running slow up Caleb’s sides, then over his arms, and finally back down his front. Noting, cataloging.

“Freckles,” Caleb supplies breathlessly, eyes trained downward, following Essek’s hands. His tone suggests he thinks the word silly, though Essek is far too bothered with dipping his thumbs into the slim, slight curve of Caleb’s hips to pay much attention to it.

“Have you,” Essek pauses for a moment, caution mingling with curiosity, “always had them?” Caleb smiles, the skin of his pink lips stretching and making a wild feeling thrash around Essek’s stomach.

“I was born with them, yes.”

“Can you feel them?” He asks without thinking. And if he’s honest, nothing about this night so far has been indicative of him thinking.

“No, they are part of my skin. I can feel you touch my skin, though.” Caleb shudders through the final words as Essek runs his fingers up and down his stomach. 

He leans forward, abruptly aware of how fully he is sitting on Caleb’s legs. He feels the line of his hardness seep warmth into where his thigh is now being pressed against it.

Caleb is flushed, from the wide bridge of his nose to the apex of his rapidly rising and falling chest. The pretty red-pink-brown muddle of color on his skin is such a novel sight, Essek simply sits and marvels for a moment.

And then he feels Caleb’s fingers pushing and lifting at the hem of his overshirt. Essek wonders if the term is still applicable if there isn’t a stitch underneath it, but the thought is chased away by the feeling of Caleb’s hands and eyes running over him.

“We are different, surely,” Essek starts after a minute of silence in watching Caleb appraise the color of skin, his hairlessness. His _freckle_ -lessness.

“Yes, can I touch you?” It comes out in a rush, and Essek manages to keep his expression controlled, one of mild interest rather than that of a bewildered, drunkenly lustful lech.

“Please.” He belatedly hopes Caleb won’t mistake his composure for disinterest, but then he’s pressing his hands to Essek’s waist and gripping experimentally. 

The sight of his own skin pushed out from between the splay of Caleb’s long fingers is almost too much. When their eyes meet again, it doesn’t take much more than a suggestion of pressure before Essek is falling forward and catching Caleb’s mouth with his own again. 

They kiss animatedly and Essek feels he could use the heat generating between them to spit fire.

He delights himself by adjusting his weight and rolling himself forward. Caleb groans, tightening his grip. He thinks it might be to still his hips, a warning to slow his advances.

As he shifts the both of them, Essek has only a moment to acknowledge that Caleb isn’t asking him to stop. His hands wind around Essek, pulling him downwards to meet the rise of his hips. The motion presses them together with a delicious friction, and Essek’s elbows buckle as he falls gracelessly onto Caleb’s front.

“Oh.” The sound punches out of him as he settles his face into the crook of Caleb’s neck, trying to come to terms with the fact that Caleb is continuing to push and pull their bodies together in a filthy, thorough grind. He feels alight with a roiling pleasure akin to what he thinks it might be like to jump off the bow of a ship into a stormy ocean.

Caleb ducks his head down and begins to suck a mark into his neck, and Essek squeezes his eyes shut so tightly that he begins to see colors. He lets out a hedonistic noise, feels the definition of Caleb’s cock as it jumps against his own through the layers of fabric between them.

Then Caleb is moving his hips again and Essek has no room for anything else in his head. He stitches a few wet kisses along the outline of Caleb’s beard, leans back.

Sweat has begun to dapple along the side of Caleb's face, and on his left temple a few copper locks of hair have plastered themselves to his skin in slick waves. His eyes are glassy and dark.

“This should be classier, I apologize. I cannot help myself.” The hazy quality of his voice, disconnected and rough, sends a burning thrill through Essek. 

The flavor of Caleb's vulnerability was so potent he could taste the sharp sweetness of it on the back of his tongue. 

Sweet Luxon.

“Hm?” Caleb breathes into Essek’s jaw, where he is moving his lips against the delicate skin above Essek’s pulse. 

“I said that out loud?” He can feel Caleb’s chuckle warble against his heartbeat. He finds that as much a desire he had felt to see the man without his inhibitions, the closer he edged to that goal, the softer his stomach felt, as if coated in a sea of slick honey. 

A part of himself, long practiced in its bare cruelty, was barking sharp admonishment at his state: the Shadowhand, mind sharp as steel and cunning as a fox, reduced to a boneless mess in the arms of his human lover.

The whip crack of self-reprove and shame makes him throb. He pushes further against Caleb’s thin frame, his roughened fingertips. His evil, terrible, wonderful mouth. 

The drumbeat of arousal, both his own and Caleb’s, breaks his musing and before he can stop his hands they are sliding down to unlace his own breeches. He pulls himself out, squeezing a hand around the base of his shaft for a modicum of relief.

“Essek?” 

“Yes?”

“There is…” Caleb trails off, looking like he’s trying to find the right words.

Essek Theylss is nothing if not patient. Even when his cock is out and standing at rapt attention, cooling in the air of his own sitting room.

“Do you have oil?”

Essek thinks. His round crystal jar of oil is surely in his upstairs armoire, but the thought of separating from Caleb to stand and leave and rummage through his belongings until he locates it is non-doable. 

He must spend too long considering, because Caleb presses a hand to his cheek and runs his thumb softly over his bottom lip.

“Not here, I assume?” He’s smiling, that little quirk of the lips that may as well on him be a grin. It’s as disarming as it always is.

“It is too far away,” Essek settles on. Their cocks are resting so close to one another, though Caleb’s is still clothed. He resists moving against it like an animal in heat. His drunken, concupiscent brain extends him at least that kindness.

“That is okay. We will make do.” Caleb nods, and then he’s pressing into Essek’s mouth with his thumb, insistent without being forceful, and Essek’s lips part without protest to let Caleb slowly probe inside.

As frighteningly hot as it makes him, Essek can’t fathom meeting his eyes while he does this, so he closes them. Caleb runs the pad of his thumb over the widest part of his tongue, pressing down with enough pressure that a dent in his skin from the points of Essek’s incisors is certain. 

Caleb slides the digit to press into the soft flesh of his inner cheek and he sucks it tight against his teeth. Caleb lets out a wavering breath, almost vocalizing it into a groan. He pulls his thumb out suddenly.

Essek opens his eyes just as Caleb is reaching down and grabbing his cock firmly. Essek whines, leaning again into the plane of Caleb’s chest and digging his nose into the flesh of his throat.

When Caleb strokes upward, one long pull, Essek realizes that although he’s using the hand that wasn’t manipulating Essek’s tongue, there is a slickness to the movement of his fingers. 

He thinks of Caleb coating his hand with saliva while his own eyes were closed, makes an strangled, indecent noise. He assumes Caleb takes it as a sign to continue, and he begins working his grip up and down, settling into a quick and firm rhythm.

If Essek were concerned about decorum before, he should have been content to wait but a moment. His pants are rucked down, his hair tousled by many run-throughs of his and Caleb’s hands, falling over his unfocused eyes. 

He must look absolutely debauched, and the thought drives him to insist a dark bruise onto Caleb’s neck. He makes an almost agonized noise, but his hand doesn’t falter. 

He’s taken to tensing his fingers tight around the head of Essek’s cock as he moves. He twists his hand on an upward stroke and Essek’s spread legs instinctively attempt to pull together, succeeding only in squeezing the width of Caleb’s hips between them.

Essek feels otherworldly. Searing flashes of pleasure shoot through his stomach, his sternum, his mouth where it’s attached to Caleb. 

Caleb’s hand on him is good, so good.

“I am close.” His voice is strained, dancing on the edge of composure. But then Caleb is leaning down, pressing his lips into the damp ripple of hair above where the line of Essek’s ear begins.

“Essek. You will come for me, yes?”

By the fucking Light!

He’s gone. His back stiffens and his grip tightens on Caleb’s shoulders as his vision whites out. Strings of pearly come paint Caleb’s knuckles and the brass fastenings of his belt, and Essek isn’t wholly aware of the noises that slip out of him in this state, but he’s certain they must be utterly ignominious. 

When he’s spent, he takes a moment to breathe. Caleb’s skin is warm against his temple, inviting him to drift off. He fights it, sits up and slips his hands down to pull Caleb out of his pants.

His cock is wine dark, flushed with what Essek assumes is the ultimate culmination of the bloodied red blush that thrums underneath his skin. It’s sizable, maybe as long as his own but thicker. The way his pre-spend makes the head glisten makes Essek’s mouth water. 

When he grabs it to feel its weight in his hand, he learns there’s more skin to work with than his own. He gives a slow, experimental tug and watches fascinated as the skin envelops the head of his cock. 

Caleb fights to keep still, stomach taught like a bowstring and his lips still pressed into Essek’s hair. The feeling of his breath and his struggle to contain himself could have made Essek come again if it were possible.

“Please.” His voice is wrecked, and that one word is all Essek needs to start moving his fist in earnest, watching the extra skin slide up and down.

When Caleb starts to shift restlessly, Essek plants a firm hand on his stomach to still him and he reacts like he’s been caned. His entire body jerks as he inhales a stuttering breath, and when Essek tilts his head up to look at his face his eyes are wide and his cheeks are flaming. 

His hand finds Essek’s back, gripping his skin so hard it must turn an interesting shade of lilac.

“ _Bitte_.” Essk extends an educated guess as to what this means, the intensity of the plea enough to make him speed up his pumping fist. Caleb comes, eyes wide and legs shaking. Most of his spend drips down Essek’s knuckles, the rest sluggishly streaking over his balls.

Without a forethought, Essek raises his fist to his mouth and licks it. When Caleb opens his eyes and sees him, he lets out a low moan.

“You will be the death of me yet.”

Essek only winks. He notes the awful mess they’ve made of each other. Caleb is visibly sticky, pants certainly unsalvageable. Essek can’t imagine he looks much better.

He sighs hugely.

“It is times like this that I wish I had a hot tub.”

Caleb laughs. A loud, long peal of _real_ laughter into the heated, settling air.

Essek feels many things: buzzed, tired, sticky, sated, comfortable, pleased. And with Caleb’s laughter echoing in his ears?

He would go so far as to say victorious.

~

They do nap, or at least Essek does an approximation of such. When they disentangle themselves an hour later, it’s almost as if they’ve been glued together. While disgusting to experience, it at least breaks the tension.

Nearly. After they’ve cleaned up, Caleb stands by the front door, looking tragically at him. Furrowed brow, big eyes, pursed lips…

...it’s a very _Caleb_ look. To do away with it, Essek lifts up on his toes and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. For good measure, he uses his thumb to press and smooth away the worried creases on his face. It makes him chuckle, if nothing else.

“Please tell me we will talk about this sooner rather than later.”

Essek almost wants to say _what is there to talk about?_ He almost wants to snap it, but holds back. As annoying as it is, Caleb is right. 

They will have to discuss everything that just happened. He just hopes they won’t pick it apart, examine it like they would an experiment. This doesn’t feel like something with an easy conclusion.

“We will talk. Goodnight, Caleb.”

His feelings will settle upon him soon enough, as all-encompassing and overwhelming they may be. He looks forward to it much like he looks forward to filing paperwork.

That is to say, not in the slightest.

Caleb’s eyes shine in the darkness. It’s almost hard to look at them. 

“Goodnight, Essek.”

~

“Shadowhand.” The Queen’s voice cuts through whatever reverie had taken residence in Essek’s head in the last ten minutes of court. He stands in front of her, bowing graciously.

“It comes to my attention that you have been spending an exorbitant amount of time with one of your wards.”

“Yes, your majesty.” No use in lying here. Though his brain is working in overdrive to formulate an appropriate response for the hundred different turns this conversation could take. 

The Queen’s gaze wraps around him like razor wire.

“The human one.”

“Yes.”

“Would you care to inform me as to why? You are not giving me reason to question your allegiance, are you, Shadowhand?” 

And that’s danger. Pure and present fucking danger, pressing into his throat like the point of a blade. He feels his bowels run cold. For an infinitely terrifying, terrible second, his mind is blank. 

But his years of experience catch him in time, maybe less like a net for fish and more like the web of a spider.

“He has knowledge regarding the Cerberus Assembly’s network of spies - scourgers, you’ll recall - much more than what he spoke of to you when questioned. The information is, how should I say, sensitive. I am attempting to extract it in kind.”

The Queen considers him. She lets the silence linger, but Essek knows he has her. This information is too valuable to dismiss. The razor wire loosens.

“Very well. I look forward to an extended, detailed report at the end of this month.”

“Of course, your majesty.”

“And Shadowhand.”

“Yes?”

“Limit the amount of time you are seen in public with him. It’s beginning to make an impression.”

“Yes, your majesty.”

Essek can’t retreat fast enough, though he has to force himself to float at a reasonable pace down several hallways to his official chambers before he takes his first full breath.

He rubs at his temples, a massive headache forming beneath the skin.

“Fuck,” he says out loud, to no one.

**Author's Note:**

> this was re-titled “dont open until you arent mad at essek anymore” in my drafts and straight up sat there for over six months, three guesses why
> 
> i know it’s pretty accepted fanon that the power of love changed essek’s alignment but i just dont think it happens that quickly. this neutral evil purple bastard man is kind of a dick and i am 100% still the president of his fanclub
> 
> also major shoutout to explorers guide to wildemount. if you love writing cr fic it's a literal godsend
> 
> to be continued. I hope you enjoyed my take on an essek pov, comments and kudos make me feel alive. okay love you goodbye


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